L&O: Domestic
by lupinskitten
Summary: When a case hits a little too close to home, can McCoy overcome personal feelings before they overrule his common sense at court?
1. Chapter 1

I have written this story in complete respect to the characters, and hope that it lives up to your expectations. I would appreciate a howdy if you do read it, because it was very taxing to write, and I love to hear positive feedback. Please forgive minor mistakes. I cannot fix them without reuploading the entire story, so be kind.

**DOMESTIC**

She should have known it would make him testy. Domestic cases always made him testy.

Claire knew more than to ask about his past. She had learned just enough from his coworkers to make her wary of bringing up the topic of his father. The one time she had mentioned McCoy senior, the look that came into his son's eyes was frightening. It turned them so cold and dark that she had shuddered and changed the subject. Jack McCoy hated his father. Only the remembrance of him lying weak in a hospital bed, hooked up to a succession of tubes, most of the life eaten out of his once-swarthy form, helped abate his haunted memories of the childhood in which he had been terrorized. The same hands that had beaten his wife to a pulp during long years of marriage reached weakly for those of his son, and the raspy voice Jack had inherited pleaded, "Forgive me, John."

The name he detested. His father had never called him "Jack." Maybe that was why he went by it.

Jack had only looked at him, listening to the sound of the monitor beep, knowing his mother was outside in the hall. She didn't know what to do without her husband by her side, a dominating force to tell her how to live, how to think, how to behave. He had said nothing, only watched as his father's eyes closed, and then gone into the hall to comfort her. How she could mourn the sick bastard that had broken her ribs, thrown her down the stairs, and smacked her across the face more times than Jack could remember, he would never know.

Claire saw the same expression as he looked at the file. She wasn't sure why Adam Schiff kept assigning him these cases, whether it was out of common ignorance or if he wanted Jack to face the past, to be forced to put his feelings aside and prosecute those who murdered abusive husbands and fathers. The case had been difficult for the police, for they had not immediately discerned it was a domestic killing. The woman lived alone, quiet among her coworkers and meticulous in her personal life. There seemed no looming secrets in her past, nothing to indicate she was hiding from anyone. Then came the paper trail, the realization it was not her sexually aggressive boss that slipped into her apartment and strangled her with a piano wire, but her vengeful husband, a violent man she had eluded for eight years.

Looking at the crime scene photograph, the muscle in his cheek tightened. It was there, the evidence he needed to convict. The medical examiner's report stated long-term abuse. He shook his head. "We find one with the courage to leave," he said quietly, "and the son of a bitch does this to her."

He tossed the file onto his desk and looked up at Claire. It was late afternoon and the blinds were mostly closed, letting in frail fragments of light to cast a rippling pattern across the floor. She glanced toward the closed office door and rounded his desk, hand trailing along the back of his chair before she leaned down to put her arms around his neck. She could smell his cologne. It was what had initially drawn her to him, a whiff of that scent as she walked down the hall with Ben Stone her first week in the office. Jack had looked at her as he passed. It was nothing more than a glance, but in that glance she had _known_. His reputation preceded him, and she was less than surprised when he requested her transferal to his office after Ben retired. Then, she had asserted nothing would ever exist between them. What a playful farce it seemed now.

"I am sorry, Jack," she said. It felt so personal in the office, so private, despite the numerous individuals at work beyond the four walls. If she concentrated, she could hear them walking down the hall, speaking into their cell phones, arguing with defense attorneys as they attempted to get plea-bargains.

He reached up and touched her hand, turning his face slightly toward hers. "You have no reason to be sorry," he retorted. "Be sorry for the victim, if anyone." He glanced at his watch. "I have a meeting with Adam to discuss the Penbroke case. If you'll wait for me, I'll take you to dinner at Le Chantelle."

Rising to his feet, Jack reached for his jacket. Claire leaned against the desk as he tightened his tie, loose from an afternoon of paperwork. Crossing her arms, she remarked, "I'm not sure that's a good idea. The last time I was there, the wine made me…"

"Interesting company. You should drink more often." He looked at her a long moment, his dark eyes concealing the nature of his thoughts. "Are you going to wait for me or not?"

With a shrug that indicated she would so long as nothing else of interest arose to occupy her time, Claire reached for the file on his desk. Jack vanished out the door, knowing she would be there when he returned. As much as she enjoyed aggravating him, she liked spending time with him more. She had not thought this would be true after their first meeting, but it had rapidly become apparent there was a connection. The constant fighting for the first six months of their professional relationship had been verbal foreplay, and gradually she had admitted that she was interested. McCoy forced her to make the first move. Whether it was a tribute to the "latent feminism" he accused her of, or part of his abnormal tactics, Claire could not be certain.

Though new to the district, the restaurant was one of their favorites. They encountered coworkers and friends there on more than one occasion, and in earlier times it would have bothered her to have them seen together. There was nothing preventing it, for the office held no policies, but she had no desire to become one of McCoy's long list of conquests. She had heard enough about his previous assistants to be wary of entanglements, but while others referenced them with coy winks and smiles, he was never disrespectful. She had met all of them, and each seemed congenial toward him. Even his ex-wife held no distaste for a marriage that had fallen apart over long hours and workaholic tendencies. Jack had spent more time at the office than at home.

"Adam wants us to take a plea bargain," Jack said after they ordered.

Claire looked at him in the candlelight, across her glass of wine as she lifted it to her lips without taking a sip. He loved how graceful her movements were, how subtle the tone of her skin beneath the soft light. "And you don't want to," she appraised.

"Our case is circumstantial at best, and Mr. Hilton has hired one of the best attorneys in the system. Adam doesn't want to run the risk of losing at trial. I can't say I blame him, but what justice does that provide the victim? She had the courage to leave him. Most women never leave. Most cases that cross my desk are the one time the husband was too drunk or furious to care and killed her in a fit of violent rage. But this wasn't violent so much as it was calculating. He entered her apartment and waited for her. He then strangled her with a wire from her own instrument. That's heinous. It doesn't deserve a plea."

Jack turned his wine glass on the tablecloth, venturing to look at her. Claire understood, if not everything; he could see it in her eyes. The photographs had been what most profoundly unnerved him. Anna Murdstone reminded him of his mother: the same petite frame, soft brown hair curling around her shoulders, and similar Irish features. She had the moral courage his mother lacked, and it bothered him.

Leaning across the table and placing her hand on his, her fingertips caressing the ring that graced his right hand, Claire said, "I agree with you. I read the file and he doesn't deserve a plea. But at the end of the day, that's Adam's call. So we'll make him an offer, and see to it that he rejects it. Use the pomp and ceremony of his attorney against him, and bruise his ego a little bit."

"You're starting to sound like me," he objected, but there was amusement in his eyes. McCoy was unethical, and she was solid. That was why Adam had approved their partnership, believing Kincaid would prevent McCoy from going too far. Instead, it seemed to have the reverse effect. Long hours had brought them together, evenings spent after everyone else had gone, pouring over paperwork with open law books and half-eaten boxes of Chinese food scattered around them. Everyone said McCoy worked his assistants twice as hard as anyone else. Claire could believe it. She had spent more sleepless nights sifting through evidence or standing outside the coroner's office than she cared to remember.

"Bluffing isn't the only thing you have taught me," she replied coyly, and took up her wine glass. It was the last they spoke of business that evening. She asked him to come in when he took her home, and he considered for a moment before replying that he had a draft that had to be on Branch's desk in the morning. As much as he would have liked to remain, he had the feeling that with the brooding thoughts tempting to surface, he would hardly be amiable company.


	2. Chapter 2

**RIKERS ISLAND**

**MAY 5**

There was a note of finality in their footsteps as they passed down the lonely halls of Rikers. Claire found some satisfaction in visiting, for it allowed her to remember where the villains they prosecuted on a daily basis wound up. She was not, like McCoy, in favor of the death penalty, but nor did she feel at times as she strode down the cold corridors that this was enough punishment. For the man who had raped and murdered a little girl, for the husband that killed his wife in a fit of rage, for the cab driver that had assaulted his victims and left them to die in back alleys. She watched Jack as he entered the room, wondering how he could contend with his doubts. He never seemed to have any when it came to the death penalty, for all his deeply rooted Catholic superstitions. He had attempted to deny that they still influenced him, but it wasn't true.

The man they encountered was not what she expected. He had such a seemingly innocent nature to his appearance that she wondered for a moment if there wasn't a mistake. Jack wasn't fooled. There was something about him off kilter, a clever, sinister aspect beneath a tranquil appearance. He was quite muscular and tall, but his most impressive feature was his eyes, such a pale shade of blue they seemed transparent.

"Jack McCoy," said his attorney, an attractive older man with a voice to match his disposition, deep and intimidating. "I presume you're here on Adam's insistence to offer a plea?"

A flicker of eye movement, just enough for Jack to appraise the individual representing Robert Hilton. Despite his best of intentions, and the assurances Claire had given him in the early hours of the morning that the plea would be rejected, he had no desire to make an offer. His pause was so lengthy that Claire glanced across at him, concern darkening her countenance. Looking at the man who had so brutally murdered his wife, Jack said, "No."

The smug expression on the defense attorney's face faded. "Then what are we doing here?"

Taking his briefcase from the desk and indicating to the guard that he wanted to be released, Jack retorted, "I'll see you in court." The door buzzed open and he passed through it, his assistant on his heels. Claire remained in a petulant silence until they reached the end of the hall. Jack removed his hall pass and tossed it onto the desk, signing out in bold form.

She ventured, "Adam isn't going to like this."

"Adam left it up to my judgment. Last night you were just as enthusiastic about a trial as I was."

She hurried to catch up with him as the door let them out into the parking lot and brilliant sunlight. It was nice to be away from New York City, to see it against the horizon, though barbed wire and chain-link fences surrounded them. Rikers Island was not a pleasant place and nor was it a simple drive from Manhattan. "Jack," she said, reaching out to draw him up, "that was before I saw the defendant. The easiest way to win domestic cases is to make sure of women on the jury. We cannot do that with charming Damien Prescott defending a man who looks like—"

Jack turned into her path so suddenly that she nearly collided with him. "Like what?" he asked testily, and she could see she had wounded his pride. It was never so much a matter of stacking the jury to him as it was presenting a reasonable case. Anything that usurped his abilities in court remained a tender spot, and she had inadvertently tread on it. He had been known to flout even official authority when it came to matters of honor.

"Like… he does," she finished lamely. It was true, for while Jack was intent on his adversary, she was aware of other things. There was a subtle but profound sexuality in Hilton's presence, one she knew would be of influence in the courtroom. He had not looked at the lead prosecutor so much as at her, a fact that had escaped him in his moment of passionate ambition.

The wind came up and she brushed her hair out of her face, attempting to meet her partner's level gaze. "Would _you_ trust him, Claire?" he demanded.

"No," she admitted. "But I know his history."

Jack nodded. "Then we'll just have to make sure the jury does too. Call Briscoe. I want every shred of evidence the Boston PD can give concerning his former history, any assault convictions, if his wife ever pressed charges. If we can form a pattern and motive, it will be admissible."


	3. Chapter 3

**27th Precinct**

**MAY 21**

It was impossible not to take notice of Claire Kincaid. Whenever she walked into the precinct, every male eye in the building turned to look at her. There was something innocent in her appearance, however worldly she might have been, an instinct that prompted a protective nature in all who came into contact with her, whether it was Lennie offering to take her home if she happened to be at the station late, or McCoy sheltering her from the more gruesome autopsy photos that crossed his desk. If she was aware of the influence she carried over men, it was not something she used flippantly.

Lennie could see from the tired lines on her face that she had been harassed throughout the afternoon. It had been a difficult day in court attempting to clear her final caseload and the verdict wasn't due until the morning. She had the sneaking suspicion she had lost, and was in no mood to deal with McCoy that evening. The message left for her was urgent enough that she left before speaking with him. Approaching the desk where Lennie immediately sat up and put down the phone, she said tiredly, "You wanted to see me?"

"It's been a whole half hour since you were here. I thought you might have missed me."

Though she was clearly out of sorts, Lennie was pleased to get half a smile. He leaned back in his chair and handed her a file folder. "It's a little thing called 'admissible evidence,' though I had to sell my grandmother's grave plot to get it. We had the Boston PD do a little digging. Turns out Robert Hilton isn't the fine, upstanding citizen he would have his mommy believe. Take a look at this. Sworn statements from a number of his ex-girlfriends claiming he threatened them. One of them even took out a restraining order against him."

"I think you just saved my job. McCoy has been riding me on this one." Claire glanced at his partner as Rey returned from the bathrooms, his charming smile flashing across at her as he leaned against the desk. There was a renewed bounce in her step as she faded out the door, and Rey dropped into his chair.

Lennie watched her go, and said, "I'll _bet _he has."

Rey's expression was almost quizzical. "What, you think McCoy and—?" He motioned after the door as it swung shut, letting her out onto the darkened street.

Looking up from the report he was writing, Lennie replied, "When you've been here long enough, you start picking up on things."

"Isn't that kind of … unethical? I mean, technically, he's her boss."

His partner rolled his eyes in the faint light of the lamp between them. The handwriting on his report was much larger and less meticulous than his partner, who was often asked to decipher his writing when typing it up on the machine. "She's a big girl, Rey. She can make her own decisions. Most of us passed ethics a long time ago. It goes with the job."

"Yeah, but I thought we were supposed to be better than the people we prosecute."

Lennie shot him a withering glance. "Before you get on your high horse, remember that you haven't been here as long as the rest of us. Six months of putting murderers and pedophiles behind bars might disillusion you too when it comes to relationships." He returned to scribbling on his report, enduring a long and significant silence across the desk. Rey crossed his arms and leaned back into his chair. It wasn't the notion that bothered him so much as it remained a distraction from the case. His own report was half-written and it was awhile before Lennie glanced across at him and inquired, "You planning on finishing that tonight?"

"This whole case bothers me. I mean, what kind of a sick person beats up on his wife, then spends eight years attempting to find her, only to slice her in half with a piece of piano wire?"

"Obviously, it was more handy than a kitchen knife." Seeing that his partner was not amused, Lennie sighed and put down his pencil. "Look, you're married, right?"

Rey's voice softened slightly as he replied, "Yeah." He knew his partner didn't even have to ask. The first week of his assignment had brought wife and kids to the precinct. Lennie nodded and leaned back in his chair.

"So, do you ever get _mad_ at her?"

Rey shrugged. "Sure I do, but that doesn't mean I ever hit her."

"Look, Rey, there are two kinds of men in this world. The men who _think _about hitting their wife, or their girlfriend, or their kids, and don't do it no matter how mad they get, and the ones that actually do it. I don't pretend to know what enters that man's mind, and God forbid I ever will understand, but I do know that my job is to get enough evidence so that unethical people like McCoy can put him away for the rest of his life. There's my opinion on ethics. We _are_ better than them, because we're the ones that make them stop."


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAMBERS OF JUDGE REBECCA STEIN**

**JUNE 9**

The single rose on the desk of Judge Stein's desk felt out of place. Claire could not take her eyes off it, transfixed by the way the light hit the petals. It was such a soft presence amidst the cold lines of the desk and perfect order of the surroundings. Rebecca Stein was a formidable judge, harsh but fair. Unfortunately, she had not been fond of Jack McCoy since the first time he had tried a case in her courtroom. Her sharp features were defined by waves of reddish brown hair as she sat down behind the desk, linking long fingers together.

"Your Honor," began Damien Prescott, "the evidence the prosecution seeks to present is inadmissible. It consists of prior bad acts."

Jack injected, "Miss Kivinski's testimony can form a pattern of abusive relationships that clearly indicates his violent propensity toward women! She even took out a restraining order against him, when she believed herself bodily threatened by his presence at her workplace."

Tearing her eyes away from the rose, Claire looked across at the defense attorney as he argued, "The charges were later dropped."

The slender foot so near her own twitched perceptively, and Jack quipped, "_Before_ or _after_ your client intimated he would kill her if she stood by them?"

The aggravation in his tone was displaced only by the disapproval of the judge, who warned, "Mr. McCoy…"

"Your Honor, my client should not be convicted for a loss of temper that happened twelve years ago. He is not the same man, and should not be forced to pay for former crimes which, by the way, he was never convicted of."

"He was never convicted because he was clever enough not to get caught. His client murdered a woman with a piano wire, Your Honor. If you cannot find evidence of violent tendencies to be admissible, we might as well throw out the entirety of the justice system! Robert Hilton systematically tracked down his wife and murdered her."

The lines of Prescott's countenance hardened and he injected, "Which brings us to the financial statements. My client made numerous business transactions over the past several years that the defense intends to use to prove that he instigated an underhanded search for his missing wife. They are investments in off shore accounts, and should not be admissible as evidence."

"Do you have proof these funds went to a private investigator, Mr. McCoy?" Judge Stein turned a pair of penetrating topaz eyes on the prosecutor. It was not that she disliked him so much as she disapproved of his tactics. Jack McCoy knew exactly where the line was and just how far he could cross it. He was, to put it bluntly, a loose cannon in the district attorney's office, one that no one had any desire of curbing. It was a personal task that she undertook every time he crossed her courtroom floor, but while harsh with him at times, she was nothing if not fair.

"Our investigation has not turned up a name," Claire intervened, "but the last transaction was filed three days before his arrival in New York. He paid his informant in bank drafts made out to cash—hardly a normal business method of transaction."

Everyone looked at her as she considered. "The financials are admissible," she said after a long pause, "but I am limiting your use of former incidents. The charges that were withdrawn are not to be entered into evidence."

"Your Honor—"

"I have made my ruling, Mr. McCoy. If there is nothing else, I will see you in court."

Tightening the muscle in his cheek, Jack nodded and rose to his feet. Claire's heels clicked on the floor of the hall as they left, his pace slowed somewhat as he contemplated what they had left to work with. There was enough evidence to make a solid case, but much of it was circumstantial. Without the use of the several young women who had filed harassment complaints against him, it was possible the defense could put up a decent enough case to walk on an acquittal. There was no physical evidence linking him to the crime scene, just an eyewitness that had picked him out of a lineup who had seen him entering the building several hours before, and the fact that he was the young woman's estranged husband.

Claire shifted her briefcase into her other hand and pressed the button for the elevator. This hour of the day, the courthouse was quiet. There were trials happening behind the succession of closed doors, but only a few bailiffs and bystanders were waiting in the hall. Jack stood silent at her side and she could tell he was remembering. The doors rolled open and he shook it off as he stepped into the elevator.


	5. Chapter 5

**JURY SELECTION**

**COURTROOM OF REBECCA STEIN**

**JUNE 15**

Leaving the young woman seated in the jury box and returning to Claire's side at the desk, Jack spoke softly with her for a long moment. He was not alone in his deliberation, for Prescott was consulting with his associate, a young woman with beautiful Asian features. Claire handed him the finalized list as Judge Stein called for their dismissal applications. Without looking at one another, McCoy and Prescott approached the bench.

"The Prosecution objects to Jurors 1, 8, and 12, Your Honor."

It was abnormal that he would have found so many admissible, but the common prejudices he normally was forced to contend with in domestic homicide did not fit the individuals in the jury box. The only three of concern had sounded empathetic to the defense when being questioned. He had debated the thought of leaving 7, but Claire argued that a more rational member of the jury might be an asset when it came to deliberations. Juror 7 was a retired priest, and his very presence reminded Jack of the numerous mornings spent at mass with his mother. Rosary beads looped around her wrists, she would kneel in the pew and pray in silence, her hair carefully combed over to conceal the bruises on her neck.

Judge Stein accepted his application and looked over the top of her reading glasses. It was clear she did not mind the removal of the black-clad college student, her mouth moving in constant rhythm to a piece of gum. Prescott handed his similar list across the desk and added, in his rich baritone voice, "We object to jurors 1, 8, and 11, Your Honor."

"The Defense is attempting to remove the only married man in the box," Jack pointed out.

The judge shifted her gaze between them.

"My client deserves a fair trial, Your Honor, and it is of our opinion that Mr. Rutland is incapable of weighing the facts in evidence without prejudice."

"The Defense is allowed their objection, Mr. McCoy. Jurors 1, 8, 11, and 12 are dismissed. The others will convene here at nine am tomorrow morning." She brought down her gavel and the bailiffs showed out the jurors as Jack returned to the table. Claire was already gathering up their paperwork, and glanced up as the defendant paused in front of their desk. He had been released on bail, against the arguments of the court, and Jack had requested the police keep an eye on him. He did nothing more than look at them, then smiled faintly and moved on. It unnerved Claire much more than her companion, and she turned her head to watch as he left the courtroom, accompanied by his attorney.

"What witnesses are we going to put up first?" she asked, knowing he had spent much of the previous evening in deliberation over that very fact. He had remained at the office long after she had left, pacing back and forth and preparing his opening statements. Jack was eloquent in his speeches, passionate without becoming overly emotional; a restraint that made him appealing in a courtroom full of often bored jurors. It was this that had most impressed his law professors, more so than his in-depth knowledge of the law and its legal loopholes.

"Rodgers," he replied, "and then Curtis."

He snapped his case shut as she rose to her feet, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "The younger cop?" she asked. For the first time that day, she saw amusement enter his features. Opening the half-door between the attorney's desks and the observation room, Jack let her precede him. His brown eyes danced as he replied, "I took your advice and let the jury box fill up with women. Curtis is a little more appealing than Briscoe. Ordinarily I would prefer experience over youth, but in this case I think we might benefit from playing by the defense's rules."


	6. Chapter 6

**OPENING STATEMENTS**

**COURTROOM OF REBECCA STEIN**

**JUNE 16**

It was rare that he paused when he had the floor, but as Jack McCoy looked across the sea of faces watching him expectantly, he realized that just for a moment he held their interest. It was no different than any of the hundreds of other cases he prosecuted throughout the year, but the significance seemed multiplied in that instant, as he looked from one earnest pair of eyes to the next. It was a case that felt more personal to him, in the knowledge that it might have been his father who was on trial. It was not that Robert Hilton resembled him so much as in his mAnnarisms, in the methods in which he attempted to dominate and abuse women. This same interest was present in Jack, but not of a domineering nature. He preferred to protect them.

"Anna Murdstone," he began after a significant pause, his voice softening as though he spoke of someone dear to him, "was a musician. All she ever wanted to do was play for the London Symphony Orchestra. Her professors in school wanted to help her with this ambition, and she received a scholarship to study music abroad. Then, she met a charming man named Robert Hilton and her dreams were abruptly cut short. The Prosecution is going to tell you how he abused and terrorized her. How in fear for her life, she gave up her dreams and fled. How she lived in hiding for eight years until, one day, with his power and influence, her husband caught up to her. But unlike most men, he didn't want to talk to her, to explain. Instead, he waited in her apartment, and then brutally killed her _with the string of her own instrument_."

Lifting his hands in a motion meant to tame the distrust of the eyes that turned in the direction of the defendant, Jack said soberly, "There is nothing poetic about this crime. There is no defense he can offer to undo what he has done." He looked at them for a long beat, and then returned to his place beside Claire.

The trial went well for the first half, despite Prescott's attempts to undermine their case. Curtis was young and inexperienced, but Claire had spent several hours prepping him and he came full of confidence. There had been a moment in the precinct when Briscoe had learned he was summoned to testify in which Rey wasn't certain of his partner's reaction, but then Lennie had resumed business as usual. He had never actually met Jack McCoy before, only knew him by reputation, as he rarely ventured down to the precinct. What he found was a compelling sense of presence accompanying a tall individual, slightly older than he might have anticipated, with wisps of gray in his dark hair.

Rounding the desk, Jack inquired, "What did you see, on entering Anna Murdstone's apartment, Detective Curtis?" He knew better than to look at the jury, but it was clear they liked him. Rey's approach on the street was one of aggressiveness, but in the courtroom was a reassuring tone, one that put the women at ease. Claire had studied enough on jury selection to know his instincts had been right. Though it was underhanded strategy to appeal to the emotions of the jurors rather than common sense, she could not fault the body language of those in the box, leaning slightly toward the detective.

"There were groceries on the floor, and some of the furniture was overturned, as though there had been a struggle. The victim was laying just inside the entry hall."

"What did you learn on investigating Miss Murdstone's background?"

Rey glanced at the jury as Claire had instructed him to, careful not to change position in the box. She had warned him it might come across as unsure of his position. "At first, we couldn't find anything. She had no criminal record. Finally, we matched her DNA to an assault case reported to the police in Chicago. The police had responded to a domestic dispute at her former residence. We discovered she had disappeared eight years before, and assumed another identity, presumably to escape her husband."

"Objection, speculation!" Prescott called out.

"Sustained." Judge Stein turned intent eyes on the detective seated to her left, as Jack continued the examination. Content with both the young man's responses and the impression it had left on the jury, he returned to his place behind the table and Prescott approached, buttoning his jacket. He stood a moment appraising the attractive features of the detective and a hint of a smile crossed his face.

"Detective Curtis, you testified that you only arrested my client after learning the victim's true identity. Is it true that you placed another man under arrest for the same crime?"

"Yes, her employer. He had shown a romantic interest in Miss Murdstone, and we thought it possible there may have been an argument. We were wrong." Rey did not much like Prescott, as he drew nearer, for there was an unreadable darkness behind his eyes. The two had formed and immediate dislike when Prescott had waltzed into the holding cell and demanded interrogation of his client cease. Even from a distance, the animosity between them was apparent, and Claire wondered if that had not been part of her partner's ulterior motives in putting Curtis on the stand.

"Isn't it also true that a witness placed him at the scene of the crime?"

"The witness saw a man who fit the general description, but identified the defendant in a line-up."

"Because their appearances are similar."

Rey shifted in his chair. "Because the defendant is the man she saw entering the building two hours before Miss Murdstone was killed."

Nodding and allowing a pause, Prescott said, "This witness. What is her profession, Detective?"

His shadow rippled across the desk as he rose to his feet. "Objection. Not relevant."

Lifting his hands, Prescott said, "We have a right to question the eyewitness' credibility, Your Honor."

"Sustained. Detective Curtis will answer the question."

Tightening her fingers around her pen, Claire concentrated on not looking concerned. They had gone through every possible question the defense would put to him the night before, but she sensed this would be damaging to their case. Jack put his hand on the table, near enough that she took notice of it, but not near enough to be observed by anyone as inappropriate. He was indicating she should relax. She battled the desire to look at him.

Rey gave the defense attorney a withering glance. "She worked for an escort service," he said, attempting to keep the disapproval out of his voice.

"She was, in fact, a prostitute. So remembering faces wasn't exactly her business, was it, Detective?"

"Objection!"

Meeting the level gaze of the jurors, Prescott smiled. "Withdrawn. Nothing further."

He resumed his seat, and Curtis was excused.


	7. Chapter 7

**OFFICE OF EADA JACK MCCOY**

**JUNE 19**

"I hate to say it, Jack," Claire confided from the other end of the couch, surrounded by open Chinese boxes and paperwork, "but Prescott is putting on a hell of a case. So far they have managed to provide an alibi we cannot disprove, discredit most of our witnesses, and plant a reasonable doubt in the mind of the jury as to whether or not he's responsible."

"He _did _do it, Claire," her associate replied from the other end of the room, where he had been pacing the last five minutes. His sleeves were rolled up and collar undone, hair slightly ruffled from running his fingers through it. Jack was never more at home than in the office, but tonight his aggravation was more pressing than his confidence. Claire crossed her legs and didn't move from the depth of the pillows on the couch, replying, "You know that, and I know that, but the jury might not know that."

Halting his pacing long enough to look across at her in the soft light, Jack kept his hands in his pockets. He knew she was right, that they had lost a great deal of ground that afternoon. Prescott was a formidable attorney and his client was remarkably poised, as though he wasn't facing a murder conviction but a simple parking ticket. Just looking at him, it was difficult to believe the seemingly mild-mannered, well-groomed man was capable of terrorizing his wife. But there was something about all of them, something that only those of instinct or who had encountered it in the past could sense, a naturally violent streak betrayed in the tone of their voice, the quiet nature of their movements, the desire to dominate and command.

"When I was eight years old," he said after a moment, standing partially in the shadows, enough that his face was concealed from her appraisal, "my mother brought me home from mass. It was the weekend before Easter and my father, like always, was drunk. Normally, she was able to get me into the house and up to my room before he started in on her, but he was in a particularly foul temperament." He paused, biting his bottom lip, and shook his head. "That was the first time I ever saw him hit her," he said quietly. "For no reason. Well, in his mind I am sure there was a reason, but it wouldn't have made sense to the rest of us."

Claire did not quite know how to respond, maintaining silence, but she dropped her foot to the floor, indicating that he should come and sit beside her. He did not immediately comply with her unspoken invitation, wondering if he had spoken too freely. Resting his hand on her knee, Jack stared at the coffee table overflowing with documents. "I don't think I ever realized how much of an impression it made on me until I was older," he remarked. "I remember the night so well. I was just finishing law school, and had been married six months. She… she made me so furious that just for an instant, I thought about hitting her."

"But you didn't."

"No," he said, "but I _thought_ about it." He turned dark eyes on her and shifted just enough on the couch so that she could see his face in the lamplight. Most of the office remained quiet, all but a few people having gone home hours before. Claire reached out and entwined her fingers with his, her silence more than maintaining her faith in him.

"Hilton takes the stand tomorrow," she remarked.

Jack nodded. "Claire," he said, "call Briscoe and Curtis and have them arrange for Miss Kivenski to come up from Long Island. I have a feeling we may need a rebuttal witness after I cross-examine Hilton tomorrow."


	8. Chapter 8

**COURTROOM OF REBECCA STEIN**

**TRIAL PROCEEDING 73**

**JUNE 20**

He was a charming man on the stand, quietly confident and mellow in his tone. If Claire had not known the truth about the monster lurking beneath the veil of concern, she might have thought him pleasant. Robert Hilton had perfected his nature to such a degree that it was like making love to the jury. The gruesome details of the crime were slowly eroding beneath his languid tones and frequently flirtatious glances. However much Claire seemed concern, it was apparent that her companion was unaffected. She had never seen Jack quite so content in his assurances. He had entered the courtroom that morning in good humor, and now sat back in his chair, observing with an expression somewhere between amusement and intensity.

"Nothing further," Prescott said, and resumed his seat.

Jack sat for a moment, gazing across the courtroom at the attractive individual on the stand. "Mr. Hilton," he said, "did you love your wife?"

Having anticipated something more antagonistic, the man was taken aback. "Yes," he replied.

Rising to his feet and circling the desk, Jack further pressed, "How much did you love her?" His height allowed him to tower over the witness box, and he halted several paces from it, allowing the defendant to respond, "Very much."

Maintaining eye contact with the defendant, whom he knew was attempting to discern where this unique approach might lead, Jack shrugged. His voice was neither aggressive nor accusing as he inquired, "Then perhaps you would care to explain to the court why, when she went missing from your home in Chicago eight years ago, you never bothered to file a missing persons report with the police."

The people of the jury looked from the prosecutor to the defendant with curiosity. Seated in the background, Claire was beginning to understand. Somehow, miraculously, McCoy had brought his emotions under such control that he appreciated the best approach to this soft-spoken man would be to ensnare him through the concept he had been pressing throughout his testimony, one of ultimate love and devotion to a misguided, artistic young wife. Hilton hesitated, not long enough for it to be significant, but Jack knew he had the upper hand.

"I didn't believe it would be necessary," he replied quietly.

"Then your wife was accustomed to leaving for long periods of time without telling you of her whereabouts."

"No. But Anna had told me she was unhappy with our marriage. She left me a note asking me not to attempt to contact her. I was merely abiding by her wishes."

"But you loved her."

Mild aggravation surfaced. "Yes," he repeated.

Jack lifted his shoulders, maintaining utter calm. "You loved her, but respected her wishes and did not attempt to involve the police after it was apparent that she had no intention of coming back. That hardly seems like the logical actions of a man in love. Or were you afraid to involve the police because of the story she might tell them?"

"She would have had nothing to tell them, Mr. McCoy."

Resting his hand on the edge of the witness box, Jack said, "Because nothing happened, or because you were determined she would never tell anyone what you did to her?" His brows lifted and he saw a shadow of irritation pass through the man's eyes. He knew he was starting to dig beneath Hilton's skin, that the façade of concern was simply a mask to conceal his true nature. If he could prompt him to a response that broke the composure, it would be the difference between reasonable doubt and a conviction.

"Because nothing happened." This was directed at the jury, who met his gaze with a mixture of various expressions. Prescott had done nothing throughout but lean back in his chair, but now he shifted slightly forward. Claire could feel his tension despite the space between them, sensing that he too believed his client might snap in the courtroom. It was something no attorney wanted, the risk of putting a guilty man on the stand, but he had relied on charm and good humor to get them through, not counting on the equally daunting qualities of the prosecution's tactics.

"Your wife had no reason to fear you, Mr. Hilton?" Jack turned away from him, barely pausing to hear the resounding but weary No's the defendant sent after him. "You never struck or threatened her? You never attempted to intimidate or silence her? What about the report she filed with the police when they were called to your home on a domestic dispute?"

"That was a mistake," her husband replied tiredly. "Anna was angry with me. She dropped the charges."

Jack took up a file from the edge of his desk. He did not meet his assistant's gaze. He never did when on trial. "The medical examiner testified to long term physical abuse. How do you explain that?"

"I only knew Anna for three years. She told me nothing about her childhood."

The amusement was back, causing the corners of his eyes to wrinkle as he proposed lightly, "I know all about her childhood, and there were no indications of abuse."

Prescott launched to his feet. "Objection, facts not in evidence!"

"Sustained."

Closing the folder and dropping it onto the desk, Jack turned back to the witness. He sensed the jurors were wavering in their opinion of him, weighing the evidence against the reasonable man seated before them. "Mr. Hilton," he said, "why did you come to New York?"

"For a business meeting."

"It wasn't because you had just been informed that your missing wife, the one you claim to have loved so dearly, had been living and working here for the past two years?"

"I had no knowledge that Anna was here."

"And yet we have testimony from an eyewitness that saw you enter her building several hours before the murder."

Hilton shrugged. "Your witness was mistaken. I was nowhere near her apartment building."

Claire shifted her gaze to McCoy, standing near the jury box. She could tell from his movements that he was no longer controlling all of his emotions. He was chAnnaling them, powerfully, into the line of assault-driven questions that he began to fire at the witness. "You came to New York to kill her, to make her pay for the humiliation of her having left you, didn't you, Mr. Hilton?"

"No!"

"You were infuriated with her, that she spent eight years eluding you!"

Prescott was once again on his feet. "Objection!" he cried, but the prosecutor didn't wait for a ruling. "That not even the finest private investigators you hired could find her!" Jack insisted. Prescott renewed his objection, and the judge started to intervene, but McCoy was beyond listening. "You learned she was here, and decided to teach her a lesson, so you broke into her apartment, waited until she returned that evening, and strangled her with a piano wire—_didn't you_?"

"No!" shouted Hilton, his face reddening with the effort "If I had wanted to find my wife, I could have found her!"

"Why?" the prosecutor demanded.

"Because Anna was trailer trash! She didn't have the intelligence to outsmart me!"

Jack lifted his daunting eyebrows. "She had enough intelligence to get a scholarship abroad," he said. "Is that why you were so furious with her? Because she outwitted you in every possible way, that she lead you on for eight years before you found out where she was? Is that why you slipped into her apartment that night and strangled her? You nearly took her head off, Mr. Hilton. Was that _really_ necessary?"

For a moment, Hilton only glared at him. Then the utter control he maintained over his emotions set in and common sense compelled him to calm down. His features underwent such a remarkable transformation that even Jack was impressed, as the rage was replaced with indifference. "My wife had nothing to fear from me, Mr. McCoy," he said. "I did not come to New York with the intention of killing her. I did not even know she was here. I would never have hurt her. I never _did_ hurt her, or anyone."

Jack looked at him. Then his gaze shifted to the judge and he said, "I have no more questions for this witness." He returned to his chair and dropped into it.


	9. Chapter 9

The defense rested their case, and the judge inquired if the prosecution had anything further. With a quiet note of determination in his voice, Jack said, "We would like to call a rebuttal witness, Your Honor. Irene Kivinski."

"Your Honor, you ruled on this before the trial," Prescott reminded her. The judge looked between them and summoned them to the bench. Placing her hand over the microphone, the redhead turned her full attention to Jack McCoy as she said, "He's right, Mr. McCoy. I excluded Miss Kivinski's testimony as a prior bad act."

Shaking his head slightly, Jack pressed, "Only in the event that it established a pattern. The defendant testified that he never hurt anyone. Miss Kivinksi will state the alternative." He said nothing more, but relied on her good judgment to make the decision. His guess that it would be allowed was not made in vain, for as much as she might have objected to his personal attributes, there was a hearty desire in her to see justice carried out. He returned to Claire confidently, and Irene Kivinski was shown into the courtroom. She was a very petite young woman bearing a similar resemblance to the diseased.

Taking the stand and shooting a glimpse at the jury, she seemed relieved when Jack approached, wisely standing between her and the defendant. He blocked the man's domineering stare effortlessly, inquiring in a gentle tone, "Miss Kivinski, where did you meet Robert Hilton?"

"In a business meeting in Chicago, about fifteen years ago. We dated for a few months, and then I ended the relationship." Keeping her eyes fixed on Jack as he approached and leaned against the witness stand, Irene made a saintly appearance in the sunlight filtering through the room. Her long blonde hair was drawn back from a face so sweet that it nearly matched Hilton's for appeal. Jack inquired, "Why did you end it?"

"Because he started using me as his punching bag."

It was stated with such calm that even Claire was impressed, as if the young woman had recovered from the devastating emotional abuse he had raged on her. The longer she remained on the stand, the more concise she became and it was soon apparent that the defense's case had been weakened considerably. Closing statements were made with the appropriate amount of passion, and then they were released for the afternoon to wait. Jack had no intention of returning to the office, choosing to remain in the outer hall. Claire opted to stay with him, leaning against the wall and watching as he paced back and forth.

"You did well in there today, Jack," she remarked after a considerable silence. They were not alone in their corner, for individuals kept emerging from various courtrooms on errands. Jack looked at her and his expression softened. He did not speak, but ventured a hint of a smile. There was a note of sorrow in his countenance as the afternoon wore on, but soon they were called into the courtroom. The jury had been in deliberation for less than two hours. It spoke of an impulse verdict, one that promised nothing for the prosecution or the defense. It could have easily swung one way or the other.

The foreman was the minister, rising to his feet, his clerical collar gleaming beneath the afternoon light. Jack looked across at the defendant as the verdict was read. The judge dropped the hammer and dismissed them, as Hilton was taken into custody. Claire could sense her companion's relief as he packed up his things, and see the burden lifted as he took her to dinner. Adam had nothing more to say on the topic than an affirming grunt, as he dropped his hat onto his head and left the office. This time, Jack did not mind entering her apartment building. They encountered an older woman in the hall, holding her little dog beneath one arm, and Claire said hello to her as she fitted her key into the lock and let him into the apartment.

"That's my neighbor," she remarked as Jack stepped into the living room. It was a smart little place that suited her, for there was the same charm to her surroundings as in her nimble little form. "She loves to know everything about everyone, and if she cannot find out, she makes it up."

"Then let's give her something to gossip about." He held out his hand and hers slid into it, allowing him to draw her near. The apartment was silent as he kissed her, caressing her waist. Her pulse quickened as his lips wandered to her neck. She loved the way he smelled, a combination of cologne and law books. Both of them were relieved, a month's accumulation of work having come to frustration. There was still enough wine on his lips that she could taste it, allowing him to guide her across the room without removing his embrace.

"How is your work coming on the Branson case?" he inquired, without much interest. It was like him to feign interest. Claire had difficulty finding her voice, as her jacket came off, sliding to the floor. His hands were so warm, so comforting after a difficult day at trial. She had been tired walking home, her arm in his, but exhaustion was slowly melting away.

"I think I can win," she whispered. It was dark enough that she could no longer see his face, just feel the warmth of his breath against her chin as he responded, "Never _think _you can win anything, Claire. Be _determined_ to win."

Instinct motivated her, responding to his caresses with yearning and allowing the intimacy of the moment to carry away her concerns. He was as much a tonic as part of the problem, a warm body that wanted her just as much as she wanted him. He lifted her off her feet. "Is that what drives you, Jack?" she asked with the last resistance she had. "_Determination_?"

There was as much natural instinct in his romantic confidence as in the courtroom, quickening her heart with possibilities as he teased all of her senses. He leaned her into the warmth of the pillows and felt her relax in his arms. She did not speak again, finding it impossible in the depth of his kiss. He rested against her, feeling the quickening of her heart beneath the silk of her blouse. Claire, who had fought him for so long, matching her wits against his in an eternal struggle for superiority, was no longer resisting. Dimly, in the darkness, the phone rang. She attempted to ignore it, to focus only on the sensuality of his embrace, but it was persistent, filling the background with a shrill, resounding echo that caused her to reach for the phone on the bedside table.

Jack's nimble fingers found her wrist, preventing her from picking up the cradle.

"Let the machine get it."

She kissed him again. And dimly, against the backdrop of customary noise for that time of night, the sound of taxis in the streets below and sirens in the distance, beyond the rapidity of their pounding hearts, the phone stopped ringing.

THE END


End file.
